


Apple Apple

by zeldasayre



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, College, F/M, Original Character(s), literally I had a weird dream and decided to make it a story, that's what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldasayre/pseuds/zeldasayre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had a bizarre dream about sleeping with an older man and then falling in love with his son. My friend said I should make it a short story and name it Apple Apple. That was too good a title to let down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apple Apple

Here’s the thing: he was _very_ drunk. I wasn’t. That’s not to say I was totally sober– I don’t think I would’ve trusted myself to drive– but, still, the difference between us was enough that, in a way, _I_ kind of took advantage of _him._

Which, I know, is hard to believe, especially given that he was at the very least twenty years my senior.

I’d spotted him across the dance floor, like a scene from a music video, and just thought _he is beautiful_. He had dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. My less-than-lucid brain labelled him _Persian or Puerto Rican_. In the light of day and the state of sobriety one can only reach from waking up in bed with a middle-aged man, he was… I don’t know… maybe Iranian? That seemed like a safe bet.

I hurriedly grabbed my clothes, stuffed in a pile at the end of the bed, and struggled into them, stuffing my bra and fishnets– yea, I know what I’m doing– into my purse. I tip-toed into the hall with my heels in my hand and, closing the door as gently as possible, pulled my hair into a high ponytail.

His house was ridiculous, a Beverly Hills mansion looking like it was _trying_ to fit every stereotype. There was gold everywhere, gaudy furniture and ugly, enormous moulding. Everything smelled like leather and cologne.

I left my shoes off as I hurried down the marble stairs. For some reason the front door intimidated me, like I might run into his wife bringing in the groceries if I stepped out onto his driveway in LA sunshine, so I turned toward the kitchen and the side door I remembered entering through last night.

I froze in the doorway just as someone– his son, presumably, a guy about my age, and perhaps not more attractive than eighty percent of the inhabitants of Beverly Hills, but nonetheless startlingly so– looked up at me from where he sat on a bar stool, an apple in one hand and a book in the other.

I stared at him and he stared at me and neither of us moved for a few seconds.

Then he quirked both a brow and the side of his mouth in the same moment, and I let out a rushed, humiliated breath and barreled past him, slamming the side door behind me and running blindly as my eyes fought to adjust to the outdoors.

I didn’t stop to put my shoes on ’til I was three streets away.

*  
Maria was beautiful, with thick hair, thick lips, thick thighs. I asked her out once, and she rolled her eyes at me and said, “You’re a mess, Caitlin, and you think Tabasco is too spicy. I would never date you.”

“Hey!” I objected.

“Also,” she said, “You’re straight.”

“I might not be!”

“You think Tim Robbins is hot. You’re straight.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry, are you telling me you can watch _The Shawshank Redemption_ and _not_ find that man attractive?”

“You do realize,” she said, “that that is literally the least sexy movie on earth.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How about _Schindler’s List_?”

Now, in her dorm, on her bed, she handed me a mug.

“So,” I said.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I do not have time for _Real Caitlin of Beverly Hills_ right now. I am studying.”

We’d gotten back to school two days before, and the first day of classes was tomorrow. She hadn’t gone out with me last night. She never did.

“How could you possibly be studying?” I said. “We haven’t had class yet!”

“I had winter break reading.”

“What is this, high school?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Wait,” I said. “So you had work over the break, and you’re only just now getting to it?”

“No,” she said. “It was just assigned yesterday. But I have to finish.”

“Ok,” I said. “Under normal circumstances, I would leave my News for another time, and let you study.”

“No,” she said, “you would not.”

“These, however,” I continued, unperturbed, “are… special… circumstances.”

She peered up at me from the book she had already cracked open, clear in the intention to ignore me. She rose an eyebrow at my expression. “Caitlin,” she said. “You’re blushing.”

I grabbed her pillow and stuffed it in my face, groaning.

“Oh, no.” She echoed my groan. “You’re not pregnant. You’re not.”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“You do not have an STD,” she said. She squealed, “Get off my bed! Get off my bed if you have Herpes, I swear on my life, I will–”

“Maria,” I said. “Even if I _had_ Herpes, I could _not_ give it to you by _sitting on your bed._ We have _discussed_ this.”

“Shut up,” she said. “What’s wrong with you, then?”

“Um,” I said. “I just, um, slept with someone…”

“Wow, how new and incredible.”

“…someone… older.”

She wrinkled her nose and drew her eyebrows down. “So?” she asked.

“Um.”

She rose a brow now, unimpressed.

“Like… significantly older.”

“What, like, thirties?”

“Uh…”

“…Caitlin.”

“Um.”

“Caitlin.”

“Yea.”

“You did not sleep with someone dad-age.”

I didn’t respond.

“Please tell me you were not someone’s mid-life crisis.”

“I mean,” I laughed. “If that was the whole crisis, it went by pretty fast.”

“Caitlin,” she slapped her hands over her ears, “I am young and innocent and pure. I do not deserve to be subjected to this right now.”

“Yea,” I agreed, staring at my hands as I picked at a fingernail.

She stared at me, concern growing on her face. “Was it… uh, I–”

I glanced up at her, confused.

“Um, consensual?” she asked.

“Yea!” I said, in a rush. “No, yes, it was, completely. On my part, I mean, at least.”

“What the crap? On your part?”

“He was, like, pretty hammered.”

She groaned. “This is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” she said.

“Uhhh,” I said. “Pretty sure this is a thing happening to _moi_ a little more than _toi_.”

“Are you, like… Ok?”

“I mean, yea. I’m fine. Like I said, it was consensual. I enjoyed it, at the time.”

“Ew ew ew ew,” she said, grabbing the pillow from me to stuff in her own face.

“I just…” I trailed off, and she lowered the pillow to level me with a serious gaze. I sighed and ran a hand over my face, then through my hair. “That was so stupid. I don’t know why I did that. I don’t know why I do this stuff.”

“You don’t do _this stuff,_ Caitlin.”

“Um, you were the one who just–”

“You do normal college student crap, yea, sure. But this particular incident is not, like, representative of your behavior as a whole. I would venture to say.”

I groaned again, falling forward to lay on her lap, my cheek pressed against her thigh. She tangled her fingers into my hair.

“His kid was there.”

“Oh _no_!”

“Not, like, a kid. Like, our age. His son. Probably. I’m assuming.”

She shrugged one shoulder, “Maybe it was his next visitor.”

I screamed and batted my hands against her chest in protest. She chortled, pleased with herself.

“No,” I sighed when I’d finished punishing her. “He looked like him. Just as hot. Like a younger version.”

“Like a more suitable bed mate.”

“Pretty much, yea.”

She sighed and shook her head, running her hands through my hair. “You’re something else, Cait.”

“I know.” I groaned and buried my face in her thigh.

“Nope nope nope,” she hurried out, pushing me off. “Too close, hon.”

I grinned at her. “You want me.”

“I’d want anyone right there.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I said. “You wouldn’t want my Daddy.”

“Nooo,” she moaned, shaking her head emphatically, scrunching her face in disgust.

I laughed. I did have a tendency to skip pretty hurriedly to the stage where you laugh about these things.

**Author's Note:**

> WIP


End file.
